The Labyrinth of Night
by cuteypuffgirl
Summary: Can you hear the screams? Their calls for death? The splatters of blood? Can you see the torture they have inflicted upon themselves? The living nightmares and perpetual darkness into which they delve? Ladies and gentlemen, it is time for the 67th Annual Hunger Games. And this year, the Tributes will be facing a new weapon: their minds.
1. Prologue

**A/N: **So I thought it was high-time for me to do a SYOT. Form and rules are on my **profile, **and please _**PM ME YOUR CHARACTER.**_I do not take them through reviews. More details later on. Note that this is a prologue, the first chapter should be up soon. Other than that, happy reading and don't forget to review.

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**DISCLAIMER: I do not own the idea of the Hunger Games. Suzanne Collins, we bow down to you.**

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**Prologue: A New Notion**

It all began when the other ended.

When the final blow was delivered, and the lifeless body clattered to the ground; when the sound blared from the invisible speakers, and the raucous cheering of supporters from the Capitol filled the atmosphere; when the Tribute took a moment to relish the victory, before their arms shot into the air, screaming at the top of their lungs; a part of them euphoric beyond coherent words, while another sighed in relief, subconsciously thinking _it's all over - at last._

Meanwhile, deep within the crevices of the Capitol, a group of people dressed in the most lavish of fabrics settled down in an air-conditioned room, their hands poised on the mahogany table and their minds racing with ideas for the next Games.

There was the customary throwing around of uncanny ideas – _a Games played in the ruins of a city; an arena built underground _– that were immediately rejected upon being heard. Then one of the Gamemakers piped up with the idea of a Games that targeted not the Tributes themselves, but rather _their minds._

Initially the idea of a Hunger Games played solely within _the mind _seemed ludicrous. _How would their cameras pick up the action? How would there be violence and gore if their bodies weren't affected at all? Who would watch a Hunger Games that lacked their most imperative trait: bloodshed?_

However, the prospect of fear being the most deadly weapon in the Arena eventually caught the attention of the new Head Gamemaker, Ivory Devereux.

"It's an interesting idea," she purred in her heavily Capitol-accented voice as she played with a few strands of her short yet thick blonde locks. "However, it all depends on . . . the _execution _of this _mental arena."_

"An arena in their _heads?_" another Gamemaker, Augustus Liberato, asked incredulously. "How exactly is that even _feasible_?"

"Well, for starters," Gamemaker Gemini Thornebrook put in, leaning forward in her chair, "we will have to get inside these Tributes' minds."

"And _that_ will be _easy_," Augustus retorted, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Why don't we just consult with our head psychiatrists and ask them to find a drill to crack open the Tributes' blasted skulls."

"Did you just use _sarcasm _against me?"

"Sweetheart, we all know your mind's not strong enough to handle that much manipulation."

"Why you little – "

"_Enough." _Ivory's voice was adamant and harsh, like a knife cutting through ice. She slowly paced around the room, her four-inch heels softly clipping against the marble floor. "I didn't sign up for this job to tame _children. _I signed up to _torture _them into oblivion."

"And _we _didn't?" Gamemaker Constantina Ferrand inquired, her magenta eyebrows rising. "Well, _excuse us _if we are the least bit skeptical at this idea of an arena _inside _the Tributes' minds."

Shouts rose from the other Gamemakers that sat at the table, as they launched themselves into a full-fledged argument. Accusations and insults flew across the room, shrill screams being drowned out by thumps of fists against wood. Eventually, a blotch of red crept up onto Ivory's pale face – who was thoroughly frustrated at this point – and she brought down both her fists – hard – against the table.

"_SILENCE!"_

Ivory's voice pierced the air, her perfectly manicured, turquoise fingers pointing at the various perpetrators.

A dull lull fell over the room as all the Gamemakers ceased their argument, fear-stricken at her abrupt show of a breached temper.

"I will not have _any _of this incessant bickering!" Ivory stated, her voice shaking with rage. "We do not have enough _time _for this! How many of you want to end up on President Chaucer's to-be-executed list this year, hm? How many of you indolent _morons _want to have a bullet in your skulls?"

There were no answers.

"I _thought _so. Now, if all of you _children _are done arguing, it is time to _focus!"_

Silence encased the room, no noise except the steady breathing of its occupants. It was only until one particular chair Gamemaker stood from their chair, the wood screeching as it slid across rock, and locked eyes with Ivory before opening his mouth to speak was the silence penetrated.

"I have an idea," spoke Gamemaker Lamarr Stockwell, as he adjusted his lavender lapel.

"After all the ones we've heard today, this better be good."

Lamarr cleared his throat before speaking again. "Instead of an arena that is _inside _the Tributes' minds, what about an arena that _targets _them?"

A bit of chatter and whispers rose as the Gamemakers deliberated this idea.

"Targets their minds, you say? How so?" Ivory asked; the wheels in her head already at work.

"Well, the arena wouldn't be necessarily fully built," Lamarr went on explaining, "in fact, the course of it would be determined by the Tributes themselves. Or more specifically, their minds."

"An arena that can be bent at the Tributes' will? Wouldn't that be beneficial for them? They could easily manipulate it into giving them the upper hand," said Gemini, leaning back in her chair.

"That's the thing," Lamarr said. "The arena won't comply with their mind's commands exactly. It will explicitly target their – "

" – _fears,"_ finished Ivory, her blue eyes wide in understanding. "The arena will target their minds; feed off their fears and negative emotions, putting them in a battle against themselves."

"Yes," Lamarr articulated. "Exactly."

"In a way, they will be playing their own game . . . a maze from which they cannot escape. It's perfect!" Ivory said, her mind racing.

"But," Constantina put forward, "how can we be so sure they will only focus on their negative emotions? How can we make sure it is only their fears that control this maze?"

"We won't have to," Ivory replied. "By then, we'll have siphoned out all the optimism in them, the only thing remaining will be negativity. They won't know what controls the arena, and we certainly won't be telling them. Soon, they will break and in the end, it won't be a battle of who is the strongest, physically, but rather who is the strongest, _mentally._"

A slight hush fell over the group as the digested this information. The idea of a game so ruthless and manipulative was horrifyingly enticing – a fresh new page compared to the accustomed survival-of-the-fittest theme. This would be memorable, and truly one to watch.

It would be an invisible menace; pessimism running like blood. No route would be the same, no path well-paved. Only those with the willpower of a lion would prevail, and those who relied on weapons of steel and string would be reduced to helpless heaps, begging for mercy. Bets would be placed and fears would be faced. The remaining soldier would rise above the rest: alive, but forever broken.

"Well," Gamemaker Boudicca Brunwin finally perked up. "All in favor of this mind-maze arena, say _ay_."

A cacophony of _ay_s rang through the room, in various pitches and varying tones, as gloved hands were held up in the air; vicious thoughts and pure satisfaction at this idea implanted within their minds.

"Then it is settled," Ivory said, a contented smile curling onto her blood-red lips. "Mark my words; I will be making sure this year's Hunger Games will be more horrific than the Tributes' _worst nightmares."_

And with the finality of that sadistic statement, the Gamemaker meeting adjourned.

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**A/N: **Thank you for reading, and please leave feedback. Tell me if you liked the characters, the writing, and/or the idea of a Games targeted at minds. I'd love to hear your thoughts.

Once more, the **form is on my profile;** if you are interested in sending a Tribute, please check that out. **PM only.** Note that it is _not _a first come/first serve. I choose Tributes based on their flaws, not their strengths. The first chapter should be up soon, and updates sporadic. Let me know what you think via **review.**

Until next time:

**_Peace, Love, and Nutella! ~cuteypuffgirl_**


	2. Of Broken Glass and Spilled Blood

**A/N: **Holy mother of Nutella, you guys. 11 reviews, 11 favorites, _and _12 follows in 2 days? You guys rock my socks! There's nothin' better than waking up to 45 new notifications in my inbox, haha. In reward, here is an update. This chapter will be focusing more on our Head Gamemaker, Ivory, and touches upon the subject of domestic abuse, so . . . fair warning.

Irrelevant, but this chapter was written while listening to _Demons _by **Imagine Dragons_._**I love them too much not to mention it.

Also, I'm elated to announce that** the SYOT is closed. **All non-Bloodbath Tribute spots have been taken/reserved. In 2 days! You guys are epic. Anyways, sorry for the long AN, and happy reading!

Oh, and I just realized that the italics are really hard to read with the site's new font. I apologize in advance!

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**DISCLAIMER: Anything you recognize from the books aren't definitely mine. Since I have a feeling none of you read this, I LIKE LLAMAS.**

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**Of**** Broken Glass and Spilled Blood **

There was only one mirror in the entire room.

She hated looking into it; for every time she did, the only things she saw were flaws. She saw vulnerabilities, weaknesses, holes in the fabric that was her. She saw a crippled, lost, and confused person, who found sanctuary in the pain of others.

In other words, she saw _herself_.

Ivory Devereux. Age twenty-seven. First female to ever become Head Gamemaker.

One of the most common words people stamped on her was _fierce_. _Cold. Confident._

And when she looked in the mirror that was exactly what she saw.

Her almond-shaped cerulean eyes stared back at her like glimmering icicles, impassive and insidious. Her thick shoulder-length beige blonde hair was delicately curled and her full lips were coated in a shade of deep crimson, the dark color starkly contrasting her light makeup.

She would've been the what most people called "perfect", with natural curves a good number of Capitol women would've spent millions on plastic surgery to imitate, a slender yet well-toned physique, as well as a mouth ready with a riposte and a mind as sturdy as metal. She was among one of the most envied in the Capitol, and a regular feature in most men's' magazines.

However, underneath all of the steel was nothing but glass: fragile and flimsy glass that was only held together by nothing but sheer determination. She did not show it in public, for she was expected to exhibit a stance no less that of a lioness's, but every time her eyes connected with her own, she saw her real self.

Ivory's fingers reached down and wrapped around the glass of ice water that lay on the table. Hesitantly, she lifted it to her skin, and pressed the frosty surface against her blush-caked cheek. The chill bit down on her skin, causing a patch of her blush to dissipate, revealing a long, unattractive scar that started from underneath her eye and ended just before her lip. It was slightly faded, the makeup covering most of it, but the history behind it was something not even the most practiced of plastic surgeons could conceal.

Against her own will, Ivory flashed back to the moment that had caused it; the moment that had changed her life, and the moment that had broken her permanently.

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_It was night; pure, dark, and inscrutable night. It was only by the illumination of the half-broken streetlights that the darkness was penetrated._

_The girl's footsteps echoed by tenfold as she scurried down the road, her feet splashing in puddles of mud and water. Her breath escaped in brusque puffs, and her dirty and choppily-cut blonde hair wildly flailed around her face._

_She couldn't have been more than ten or eleven, her small body thin and untouched; she was dressed in what were once fabrics of the finest quality, but now nothing but blood-stained and mud-caked tatters. _

_The endless pattering of her barefooted feet hitting asphalt did not concede, even as her small chest heaved out of exhaustion. Either way, she was determined as she ran – from not a _what_, but rather a _who_._

_"OI, YOU GIRL! Stop right there!"_

_The voice that pierced the night was deep and guttural, that of a man's. It boomed and shook the atmosphere, obviously directed at the girl. She ignored it, her small body forcing itself forward._

_"I SAID STOP!" The voice rang through the street again, garnering the attention of several citizens who promptly poked their heads out their windows, their attention drawn to the scene before them. _

_It was rare that any incident of dramatic value would occur within the Capitol; those that did were often nothing more than the occasional Peacekeeper admonishing a citizen for a small violation of a rule, or the misplacing of a personal possession that resulted in shrill cries of desperation and accusation. So when the hulking figure of a man appeared, running through the streets, chasing after a young girl with golden locks; it was almost involuntary that their attention was drawn to it. _

_The man called out the girl again, his voice growing louder and louder. The girl was unresponsive once more, darting as fast as her scrawny legs could._

_"SOMEBODY STOP THAT GIRL!" the man bellowed. His shouts caught the attention of several nearby Peacekeepers, who had since been oblivious to this chase._

_The girl caught sight of numerous white-clothed men charge towards her, their weapons of steel propped up. They wouldn't shoot a young girl, she was sure of that, but she wasn't sure of was what they _would _do._

_Desperate, she made a rather rash turn at the end of the street –_

_ – right into the arms of a waiting Peacekeeper._

_"No!" she screamed as her small beat against the torso of him. "No, no, NO!" _

_The Peacekeeper had a firm grip on her feeble body, before roughly turning her around, and shouting: "I got her!"_

_She was crying, there was no doubt about it. She could feel the wetness trail down her cheeks, the salt burning against her skin. _No, this isn't happening. I can't go back, I won't go back, I –

_"Ah, there she is!_" _the man said as he walked up to both of them. "Lil' rascal, this one is. She never likes stayin' in one place."_

_He was colossal, his height definitely surpassing six feet. He had short brown hair, layered with gel that glistened under the dim glow of the streetlights, and his blue eyes glittered with what could've either malice or relief._

_"Well, I'll just take –" the man began as he attempted to detach the girl from the Peacekeeper; his efforts were proved to be futile, as she thrashed wildly, her shrill voice crying out: "No! I won't go back! He can't take me! Please, NO!"_

_The Peacekeeper's eyebrows quirked upwards, though it was barely discernible in the darkness. "Is there an issue here?" he inquired, clearly not accustomed to crying ten-year-olds being chased at midnight. _

_"Oh, of course not, sir," the man said, his voice mimicking fatigue. "You see, my daughter – " _

_At this the girl thrashed, screaming "Don't listen to him, he's lying!"_

_The man grimaced before continuing: "As I was saying, my _daughter _has grown quite fond of her newly bought tomcat. So every time it leaves the house, she sees it as her personal mission to follow suit. This was, most unfortunately, one of those times."_

_"So, you're saying . . . your daughter left your house, proceeded to run several miles before being apprehended with necessary force, and now seems to be in a rabid state . . . all because of a _pet_." The Peacekeeper finished his statement with skeptic, as he eyed the little girl currently trapped within his clutches._

_"Precisely," the man said. "She's a difficult child, and quite impulsive as well. Oh, and a pathological liar."_

_"I am not!" the girl shouted, her lanky limbs flying. "_He's _the one lying! Don't believe him! He's going to take me away! He's going to hurt me! PLEASE!"_

_The girl's cries went unheard as she watched the two men exchange words; she also saw as the man discreetly slip a bundle of paper into the Peacekeeper's pocket, after which she felt herself roughly pushed forward._

_"Well, sir, next time, be sure to keep a better eye on your kid," the Peacekeeper said, as he tucked in the paper. "Perhaps next time you won't be so lucky."_

_"Duly noted," the man replied, as he picked up the screaming girl, before hauling her over his shoulder. "This won't happen again, will it, Ivory?" Upon hearing her name, the girl furiously beat both of her fists against her father's bulky back._

_"I'll take that as a yes," the man said before nodding at the Peacekeeper. The two men then departed opposite ways, leaving Ivory thrashing and screaming to no avail._

_No words were exchanged as the duo made their way through the streets of the Capitol, the occasional cry from helplessness escaping Ivory, and the routine grunt from her father. It was only when they both had trudged up the stairs to their middle-class apartment, did he detach her from his shoulder, before slamming her small body down onto the wooden floor, extracting several screams of pain._

_"You've got some nerve, girl," he spat, the façade of a weary and desperate father already ditched, his voice trembling with rage. "Runnin' away in the middle of the night, eh? Did you think we wouldn't notice the absence of your pathetic little self?"_

_"No . . . please, d – d – don't hurt me, please," her voice was a whimper as she backed away from his approaching figure. "I'm s – sorry. Just don't h – hurt m – NO!"_

_His palm came down against her cheek, stinging her skin, and the force pushing her back. She was screaming, shouting, and crying; but her father was oblivious, bringing down his palm again. And again. Ivory soon became cocooned in a corner of the room, her frail body shaking uncontrollably._

_"Stop, please! I won't d – do it, again. I pr – promise, just no more. Pl – please." The sides of her face were a bright red, and her sapphire eyes were watering. She felt warmth seep from her lip when she bit down on it._

_"No more, you say?" her father said, crouching down to meet her level. Blue eyes met both. "What, you think this is all you're going to get for what you've done?" His musty breath was warm on her face, and she resisted the urge to heave. And with that, his fist came forward and collided with her stomach. Bright red liquid spluttered from lips, as she lurched forward on impact. The man held no mercy and did the same with her face; the blue and purple splotches joined her other array of bruises. Every inch of Ivory ached and burned, every breath she forced herself to take was shallow._

_She watched as her father raised his fist again, and she shielded her face in a desperate attempt to prevent him from striking. Soon she found herself screaming, as loud as she could, for someone, _anyone_, to help:_

_"MOTHER! I WANT MY MOTHER! MOTHER, PLEASE HELP ME! MAKE HIM STOP!"_

_Frederic Devereux abruptly ceased his actions, his fist freezing midway at the mention of his wife. Slowly, he brought his fist down, before leaning forward towards his daughter's face, a breath of air separating them._

_"What did you just say?" he snarled into her face, as if she had uttered words that were never supposed to exist in the first place._

_"I s – said that I w – want my m – m – mother," Ivory managed out, her voice breaking at each word, daring not to look into the monster that she called her father's eyes._

_"Your _mother?" _Frederic asked sardonically, his voice edging on laughter. "You want your _mother_, do you know?"_

_She knew it would be wrong to answer, so she simply shook her head, her fraying blonde locks swishing wildly, her lips stained with blood. She could feel the clutches of fear closing around her neck, preventing her from breathing. She wanted to scream again, but feared she could not._

_A bark of laughter escaped Frederic as he threw his head back. "Sweetheart." He said the word with such vitriol that Ivory wanted to puke. "Moriah, or your _dear little mother, _is too busy with her _work. _In other words, she's drowning herself in seas of alcohol and men, living in regret knowing she ever had such a repulsive thing like _you_."_

_"You're lying!" Ivory replied, in the strongest voice she could muster, her voice more high-pitched than a child on helium. "Mother would never do that! She's not _you!"

_The derisive smile melted from Frederic's face as he took in her statement. A beast-like growl found its way through his lips, and he took a hold of her shoulders before smashing her body against the wall._

_"She's not me? Well, in that case, I'll show who _exactly _I am." He got up and left ber limp body, and Ivory vaguely heard his boots thumping as he made his way to where, she did not know._

_Being spared a moment of relief, she struggled to move, but the damage her delicate ten-year-old body had endured was too much for her, and she felt pain shoot up her limbs, slightly sniveling._

_Five times: that was the number of times she had tried to escape this hellhole. Five times she had tried, and had failed. Five times she was subsequently _punished_ by the very person she had tried to escape from._

_And now she feared this time would be the last._

_Ivory heard Frederic return, his boots heavy against wood. She heard him muttering obscenities under his breath, but it was only when she looked up at his outlined figure did she see who he _truly _was._

_"This better teach you not to mess with me again, sweetheart," he spat before hoisting the contents of his hand, and bringing it down._

_The last thing Ivory saw was an empty wine bottle sailing through the air, straight towards her face before – _

_CRASH._

Pain.

That was the first thing that she registered; it burned like fire, and licked her skin. Ivory looked down at her hand, and was dismayed to see that the glass of water she had once held was in shards, the water that dripped from her hand now stained an aberrant crimson.

It seemed that during her flashback (_oh, how she detested that word_) that her subconscious fury had gotten to her, and caused her to snap: metaphorically, and literally.

Swearing furiously, she shook off whatever remnants of the glass she had, and inspected the cuts on her hand. There weren't many, but the sight of lines of blood running down her skin caused her to unwillingly shudder, reminiscing back to that fateful night, all those years ago, once more.

She had just finished retouching her makeup in order to conceal the scar when she heard a knock. Ivory turned to see the magenta head of a young woman with spectacles poke through the crack in the door.

"Ms. Devereux," the woman purred in a thick Capitol accent mingling with what could've been a French edge. "We are ready for you."

Ivory regained her composure, straightening her dress, and putting on her most charming yet devious smile. "As am I," she said, her burgundy lips bared in a fake smile.

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_" . . . this year's newest Head Gamemaker. Give it up for Ivory Devereux!"_

The roaring of the crowd was endless as she stepped from the velvet curtains, the luminosity of the spotlights nearly blinding her; she steadily made her way to the center of the stage, where an eager violet-haired Caesar Flickerman awaited her with open arms.

"Ivory, my dear, welcome," he stated in his usual cheery voice as he beckoned for her to sit on one of the two red arm chairs.

"It is only my pleasure, Caesar," she replied, each syllable carefully articulated, as she settled down. "I am more than thrilled to be in your company."

"And likewise," he replied. "So, tell us, Ivory, what is like being the first female to ever hold the title of Head Gamemaker?"

"Well, for starters . . ."

For the next hour or so, banter was exchanged, and questions answered. Once in a while, there would be a catcall from the audience whenever she adjusted the low neckline of her dress or the occasional symphony of exclamations whenever she spoke of the preparations for the Games. All in all, Ivory had the audience captivated – whether intended or not – by her beauty and her evident lack of emotion.

" . . . and so what unique aspect will you be bringing to the Games, this year?" Caesar inquired, as their interview descended into their second hour.

Ivory managed her best smirk underneath her anxiety; it was only with a lion's will was she still holding together. An hour spent sitting still underneath enough light to blind a person, whilst dressed in skintight black and caked in layers of makeup was _not _one of her highest likings. Not to mention the fact that an abundance of eyes, artificial or not, were drawn towards her, currently taking in her presence, analyzing her every move, and treating every word of hers like it was her last.

"Well," she began, leaning back in her chair as if to portray boredom when it truth her back felt as if there were splinters in it, "first of all, this year's Games will be much more . . . _different_ than those of the past."

Caesar deliberated this for a moment. "In what sense?" he asked.

She pursed her lips, choosing her next words carefully. "In the sense that this year's Games will be more violent, more horrific, more brutal, more ruthless, and is assured to entertain and frighten beyond comprehension. This year's Games will be unlike any other, for this year's Games will be having the Tributes begging for _mercy."_

A hush fell over the audience, many of them marveling at the prospect of a Games more violent than the rest; some found it increasingly tantalizing, others rather fascinating.

The silence was only broken by Caesar, whose cheery demeanor had only been momentarily breached, who promptly snapped up and proclaimed, "Well, in the case, I'm sure we all_ cannot wait_ for this year's Hunger Games."

And with that, he got up, offered a hand to Ivory, and pulled her from the chair. They stood under the heat of the spotlight, as he lifted her arm into the air before loudly declaring:

"Ladies and the gentlemen, once more, your Head Gamemaker for the 67th Annual Hunger Games:_ Ivory Devereux!_"

The howls of the crowd was deafening, and the snaps of cameras nearly blinding, but even as she felt her makeup dripping down her skin, Ivory absentmindedly thought he was right.

She couldn't wait for this year's Hunger Games either.

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**A/N: **Woot, woot, nearly 3,000 words! Not that thrilled about the ending though. Sorry for any typos, this is (and will probably remain so) unbeta'd.

Anyways, I hope you enjoyed that, and don't forget to leave feedback. Thank you, once more, to all of you who submitted/reserved/reviewed/whatever. You all are awesome! Once again, the **SYOT IS**** CLOSED. **No more submissions/reservations, please! **THANK YOU TO EVERYONE WHO SUBMITTED!** The list is on my profile for reference.

Anyways, next chapter should be the last OC chapter, afterwards the Reapings. Yay! I hope you enjoyed this, and please leave feedback/ConCrit on this chapter, the characters, the writing, etc in a **review_._**

Until next time, awesome ones:

_**Peace, Love, and Nutella! ~xx cuteypuffgirl**_


	3. The Art of Torture

**A/N: **This chapter took my utmost willpower to crank out; it was just _that _hard to write, hence the crappy quality. Sorry for the late update, life has been hectic, and my break's almost over.

Anyways, a special shoutout to **everyone** who **reviewed/favorited/followed!** It's been a week and I'm almost close to 20 reviews. **You all are awpicdary!**

This is the last OC chapter and concerns our good ol' Head Gamemaker, Ivory, and her encounter with this year's President, Romulus Chaucer. So, enjoy this pathetic excuse of an embarrassingly short and crappy chapter, and I apologize for any typos!

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**DISCLAIMER: Last time I'm doing this shiz. I own nothing you recognize. So, people-who-want-to-sue-me, go suck an elf. ;)**

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**The Art of Torture**

She paced through the hallway with unease, her heels lightly clacking against the marble floor.

As she did, she took note of things she hadn't noticed before. The color of the walls seemed lighter; every painting seemed more vibrant, and even the books that lined the shelves looked more appealing. Perhaps it was her brain going into panic mode, or perhaps it was delusion; she did not know, and she did not care.

Every once in a while, she would glance down at the diamond-encrusted watch on her wrist, taking note of the time; every time she did, no more than a minute had passed, yet it felt like an hour.

Attempting to pass time, she took note of the various accolades that were scattered around the room – on desks, shelves, podiums, and just about everything with a surface that could withhold weight. Their golden surfaces gleamed because of the sunlight that escaped through the curtains. There were many – too many, some have said. Too many for a man who had only been in office for several months, for a man rumored to have spent most of his life in isolation, and for a man who was ruthless enough to bring a knife down on his child without blinking.

It was only when she heard a louder of clacking of heels approaching her did she snap from her trance. A young woman, much like her, with flowing turquoise ringlets and skin the brightest shade of orange, sauntered over to her, clipboard in hand.

"President Chaucer is ready to see you, Ms. Devereux," she said, her voice thick.

Ivory Devereux shot the woman a slight grimace, as she took in the sight of the abundance of artificial beautification on her body. If there was one thing she abhorred the most, it was those who hid their true selves under tubes of makeup, and needles of Botox.

"Follow me," the woman said, taking note of Ivory's distasteful expression. "This way."

Grudgingly, Ivory followed the woman as she led her through countless halls of marble. Every once in a while, the woman would suddenly turn, and Ivory would follow suit. Other times, she would merely walk behind her for what could've been a minute, or an hour.

At long last they came to a stop in front of two large oak doors, their facades decorated with complex patterns of wood and jewels.

The woman knocked hastily on the door. "Ahem, Mr. Chaucer," she called, "your guest is here."

A deep, guttural voice answered – presumably that of Mr. Chaucer: "_Bring her in."_

The turquoise-haired woman proceeded to swing both doors open, and signaled Ivory to move forward.

The room was large, with the walls painted a violent shade of red, and bookshelves lining every corner; a large glass chandelier protruded from the ceiling, while the curtains on the glass windows danced in the wind of the air-conditioner.

In the midst of it all, a large wooden desk was situated in front of a humongous portrait of the Capitol emblem. An ebony-skinned man sat there, his bald head decorated with patterns of swirls and lines, and a black eye-patch concealing his left eye. His fingers tapped the desk impatiently, as he observed the two females cross the room.

"President Chaucer," Ivory greeted him, bowing her head slightly. President Romulus Chaucer raised his cobalt-dyed eyebrows in return.

"Thank you, Coriander," Chaucer addressed the turquoise-haired woman. "You may now leave us."

Coriander bowed her head, shot Ivory one last scathing look, and turned and left the room.

The silence in the room was imminent, the President and the Head Gamemaker quietly surveying each other, although they had met countless times before.

"Well, do sit, Ivory; you're making me feel rude," Chaucer finally said, beckoning Ivory into the chair in front of him.

She acquiesced, settling herself down. Chaucer was a man she had always been fascinated by. He was not as old as most presidents of Panem had been, but old enough to avoid ridicule about his term in office.

"Thank you," Ivory managed as politely as she could. "Um, you wished to see me, sir?"

Chaucer gave her an imperceptible nod. "I did."

"Is there an issue of some sort?" she asked, slightly put off by his lack of elaboration.

"There is not, though the matter we are to discuss would be of the same importance."

"And this matter is . . . ?"

"The Sixty-Seventh Annual Hunger Games," Chaucer replied. "As this year's Head Gamemaker, I assume that you have been living up to the expected standards?"

Ivory deliberated before answering: "I can only hope so, sir."

"Ah, _hope_," he suddenly perked up, his lips curling into a smile, revealing a row of silver teeth. "What might that word holds."

The Head Gamemaker furrowed her eyebrows at his statement. "I don't quite understand, sir. What power can a mere word hold?"

Chaucer looked up at her, his single brown eye meeting her blue ones. For reasons unknown, the sight of one piercing iris was more intimidating that two. "_Hope _is more than a word, my dear. It is a word those who reside in the Districts find sanctuary in; the word desperate families turn to prior to the Reaping. Hope is a word that can raise a civilization as easy as it can bring it down."

"And this is an issue, how?" Ivory inquired, still apprehensive to how all of this concerned her.

The President of Panem shot her a contemptuous look, his voice rising slightly and his accent clipping at each word. "Hope is something we _cannot _have festering within the Districts. Do you understand that, my dear?"

Ivory swallowed bile at the tone of his voice and his use of _my dear. _One thing she did not tolerate was being called pet names, or any sort of affectionate gesture. And people wondered why she was single.

"Yes, sir," she said, going with a safe answer. "I completely understand."

She then watched as he leaned forward and plucked something out of his pocket. It was silver and glinted in the sunlight as he twirled it in his fingers. Upon closer inspection, she found it to be a single coin.

"Good," the President spat. "Spirits in the Districts are high at the moment. There have been talks of how the past Hunger Games did not evoke emotions of _fear _or even horror. This year, I will need you to prove them otherwise. I will need you to gather your group of Tributes, and _weasel _every last shred of hope from them; to reduce them to lifeless forms who beg for mercy. I need you to master the art of _torture."_

The coin slipped from his hand and landed on the surface of the desk. It clattered with finality, and the sound reverberated through the silence.

Ivory took a deep breath, as her mind frantically processed the President's requests. She was already adept at weaseling hope, that was common knowledge, but mastering torture? Was there a viable way for that? Her mind wandered, as the President sat without speaking, observing her.

"You are young, I can see that," Chaucer said, as if he had heard her thoughts. "However, it is your youth that provides you with enough willpower to hand down the torture. The most powerful weapon a person possesses is not crafted from steel or string, it is their _mind. _The mind is a weapon that is both absent and present; it is one that is both strong and weak. It is a weapon that can be used on millions, for manipulation and deception are its weaknesses."

"So what are you asking me to do, sir?" Ivory asked, still not understanding the reason for this meeting.

The corner of Chaucer's mouth curled upwards. "I know about your past, sweetheart. I know how much torture _you _endured, and how it made you into the person you are."

Ivory's fists clenched subconsciously. "What does my past have to do with any of this?" she all but hissed.

"Everything," was the answer. "Your past caused years of bitterness and resentment to build up within you. You have suppressed them, undoubtedly. However, this year, I will be needing you to unleash those emotions, and make sure they reflect within the arena."

"You want me to create pain for the Tributes like the pain that was created for me?" she hesitantly put forth. "You want me to strike fear in the darkest parts of their hearts?"

Chaucer slightly grinned. "I want you to _break _them."

A moment passed between the two, and there was only the soft ticking of the clock. After what could've been an eternity, Ivory's red lips curled into a smile:

"It'd be of my utmost pleasure, sir."

A laugh escaped the President, and he leaned forward; using his stubby fingers, he pushed the silver coin over to Ivory.

"Well then, I believe the matter is settled."

Their atmosphere was shattered as a sharp trill ran through the room. Dismayed, President Chaucer looked down at the phone on his desk, pressed several buttons, and a shrill voice pierced the air.

_"Mr. Chaucer, the Reapings are being broadcasted in the ballroom. Would you like to watch?"_

His answer was clear and concise. "I will be right there," he replied, before turning back his attention to Ivory. "Would you be interested to join me, my dear?"

She slowly got up from the chair, her hands straightening out the fabric of her black pencil-skirt. "If you'd like, sir."

Chaucer nodded, and followed suit; as the two began making their way out of the room, Ivory suddenly paused.

"One moment," she hastily said before turning back to the table. She slid her hand across the wood, and wrapped her fingers around the silver coin.

As Ivory left the room, the noises from the broadcasting was prominent. She heard the customary shouts, screams, and cheers from those in the Districts. Vaguely, she registered the sound of one of the District escorts shouting "_Happy Hunger Games, Panem! And may the odds be ever in your favor!" _

Ivory snorted. If things were to go as planned, then these Hunger Games would be the farthest thing from happy, she thought as she twirled the coin with her fingers.

Later on, it was only when she had flipped the coin over was she unfazed to find it wet with blood.

* * *

**A/N: **Eh, not that thrilled with the ending. Or this crappy chapter in general. Ah, well. President Chaucer has a Nick Fury thing going on, haha.

Anyways, next chapter should be the first **Reaping!** I am planning to do those in random order though am still conflicted on whether I should do them chronologically or not. Your input is welcome, because, frankly, I'm in binds right now. **Tell me whether you want to see the Reapings done chronologically or in random order!** The latest this update will be is in a **week **or maybe more, because, well, life.

So, I hope you enjoyed this (because I didn't), please leave feedback on the characters _(be honest!),_ the writing _(which I am not thrilled about)_, and everything in between _(concrit, death threats, etc)_ in a **review**. They're what motivate this poor soul to write. Suggestions are encouraged too!

Until next time, fanfictioners:

_**Peace, Love, and Nutella! ~xx, cuteypuffgirl**_


	4. District One: Secrets

**A/N:** So I rewrote this chapter about . . . three times, I guess? Still not _that _satisfied with the end result, but whatever. First off, sorry for the late update: I've been down with a bad case of sleep deprivation and dehydration (both of which aren't healthy for my age), so writing has been difficult. But after countless nights of no sleep and an infinite supply of canned coffee, here is the end result.

And **the Reapings will be done chronologically**, btw. Sorry for anyone hoping to see it in random order.

**Thanks for the reviews,** all of you are too awesome; anyways, I hope you enjoy reading about these Tributes as much as I enjoyed writing about them.

Oh, and since I wanted to put this up as soon as I finished, I didn't get a chance to read through,** so feel free to point out typos.**

* * *

**I would like to thank **_aijalontheman2012_** and **_Emmeline C. Thornebrooke_** for these epic Tributes!**

* * *

**District One: Secrets**

**_Takei Glow, 15, Male_**

**_Rosemarie Celeste Thomas, 18, Female_**

* * *

**_Life Before the Reaping_**

**Takei Glow, 15**

* * *

The day was starting to age: the sun already disappearing behind the wisps of white, as the sky turned from a violent shade of red to a more calm shade of lavender.

Exhaust from the nearby factories escaped into the air, the grey streaks infiltrating the light colors of the sky, as day slowly transitioned into night, currently dawdling on evening.

The boys appeared out of nowhere, hiding behind a wall of building supplies. There were two of them, one with brown hair and the other with black. The brown-haired boy gestured to the black-haired one and they quickly sprinted forward into the open field of dirt and asphalt.

District One: home of luxuries, was not as luxurious as most people perceived it to be. Although it was situated near the Capitol, and was undoubtedly one of its closest associates, it was still one of the Districts of Panem, thus being in a poorer state than it should've been.

Factories dotted the skyline that was customarily pierced by considerably tall splinters of glass and steel; not near as elegant or graceful as the Capitol, of course, but enough to make the rest of the Districts seem like slums – which, in a sense, they were.

Most of the District was occupied by either factories or residential areas – seldom enough space for recreation, or whatever passed for it in the Districts. The back lots of abandoned factories were always hotspots for teenager activity. Since most of the younger population of One were immersed within training for the Games, the moments they did spare for sanctuary were made sure to be worthwhile.

"Are you sure this is going to work?" the brown-haired boy asked his counterpart, as the two sat hunched behind a pile of bricks.

"It always does," fifteen-year-old raven-haired Takei Glow replied. "Chill, Gander. We got this."

The brown-haired fourteen-year-old Gander looked warily at his best friend before a wide grin spread across his face. "Fair point. But – _look, there they are!_"

The two boys' attentions snapped from each other, as Gander gestured to the scene that had begun unfolding in front of them.

The girl appeared first, her blonde hair flying behind her and her mouth open in laugh, as she dashed across the asphalt. The red-haired boy followed her, the two meeting at a pile of work supplies. Gander and Takei watched as the couple gave the area a quick once-over, before enveloping themselves in one another, literally.

"Gosh, do they have to be so _graphic?_" Takei involuntarily mused as he watched the couple giggle and squirm while kissing furiously, only to be promptly silenced by Gander.

"Shut up," he said. "Get ready to strike in: three – two – one – "

The two boys simultaneously reached down to pick up their ammo, before swiftly chucking them over the wall of bricks.

_SPLAT!_

A symphony of staggered shouts escaped the couple, as two large water balloons collided with their bodies. They barely had time to break apart before they were assaulted by two more. Again. And again.

Their looks of shock as they examined their now drenched clothing proved to be amusing for the Takei and Gander, the two of which were currently rolling in raucous laughter behind the wall of bricks.

"Oh, my god . . . th- their f – faces," Takei managed out between laughs as he hunched over, trying to ease his breathing.

"You'd think after being hit _four _times in the _same _location, they'd get a hint," Gander spluttered out, not even attempting to hold back his guffaws.

That was when a revelation dawned upon Takei. "Oh, shoot; we shouldn't made so much sou – "

He never had time to complete his sentence because within several moments, the couple had turned towards the general location of the sounds, and the boys had ceased laughing long enough to hear a bellowed statement:

"That's it; you lil' punks are _dead!"_

They barely had time to clear themselves before a fist came smashing through the bricks, revealing two very crimson faces of two _very _pissed-off teenagers.

Only one look was exchanged between Takei and Gander, and years of friendship and experience permitted them to say the unspoken word they had become so accustomed to sharing after their pranks:

_Run._

Their sneakers pounded against asphalt, as they sprinted away from the drenched-and-now-pursuing couple, who were currently roaring threats and obscenities at the two boys. From years of living in the labyrinth that was District One, Takei and Gander easily navigated through the various alleyways and routes, careful not to run into pretentiously-dressed citizens.

"Do you think we lo – ow!" Takei came to an abrupt stop, as he collided head on with the people he was so meticulously attempting to avoid.

The girl recouped quicker than he did, and Takei only caught a glimpse of her hooded grey eyes and dirt-caked red hair, before she ran past him, oblivious to his situation.

"Dude, come on!" The voice of Gander echoed through the alleyway, causing Takei to snap back to reality – in which he was currently being pursued by two teenagers out for his blood.

The two ran for what seemed like miles, before they finally came to a halt, a bit from District One's wealthy homes, the place where Takei resided.

"I think we f – finally l – lost them," Gander said, his breath coming in short gasps. The two slumped to the ground without a second thought, the darkness already settling around them.

"No . . . shit . . . " Takei replied, too tired to care about his use of profanity; his best friend cracked a weak smile.

"Well, at least that was fun," Gander told him. "Same time, next week?"

A fire lit in Takei's golden-brown eyes. "You're on."

The two best friends sat there, their backs against the grey walls that were common within the architecture of District One. Takei turned his head slightly to look at his best friend.

The best friend he grew up with, the best friend he trusted with his entire being.

The best friend he didn't regret falling in love with.

* * *

**_Life Before the Reaping_**

**Rosemarie Celeste Thomas, 18**

* * *

She was a shadow in the night; her moving figure scrupulously hidden as she darted in out of the sight of the Peacekeepers.

Her breathing was shallow, and her face was covered; there was no way she'd let them find her, not tonight. Not any other night, for that matter.

But even as she sat stooped behind the wall, there was a subconscious thought that darted through eighteen-year-old Rosemarie Thomas's head, as she watched the beams of light from the Peacekeepers' torches travel over the dark street. She knew better than to run out in the path of them – that would guarantee her capture, which would most certainly not help her case.

However, years of living like this – in constant fear and paranoia – had taken its toll. Her grip tightened on the hilt of her black dagger; if she risked being caught at the dead of night by the Peacekeepers – who had already become familiarized with her face and _habits _– then she was in for trouble. More trouble she had already gotten herself into.

She lingered in the shadows, which were like a second home to her, watching as they milled around the street before their attention was diverted by a stray child, who so miraculously had found his or her way into a deserted street in the dead of night.

That was it; _this was her pristine chance._

Rosemarie shot off into the darkness, not giving a second thought to the sudden shouts of the Peacekeepers. The only thought she had on her mind was to get as far away as she could from them. And fast.

By the time she reached a safe distance, they had already given up their pursuit; a good thing, too, it was common knowledge not to mess with the _Lady of Shadows_.

Her home – if what she lived in even _passed _for one – was among the trash cans, garbage piles, and discarded materials on the poorer end of District One. In truth, Rosemarie didn't have a _real _home; nor was she willing to find one, but whatever she had right would suffice.

She came to a halt in front of a wall of barbed fire; she shot a quick and furtive glance around, looking for any bystanders or worse, more Peackeepers; after assuring herself she was alone, she grit her teeth, shoved her fingers into the spaces between the wire, and forced herself up.

Rosemarie nearly landed on a sleeping child that lay on the other side of the wire. She watched as the dirt-caked and emaciated child – who couldn't have been more than four or five – squirmed at the sudden disturbance. A part of her wanted to lean down and comfort the poor soul, while another wanted to withdraw her dagger, and make good use of it.

She shook her head, and her wavy red hair swayed slightly; Rosemarie could almost _smell _the dirt that was embedded within it. The darkness may have been her second home, but that for the Lady of Shadows, not her.

Her fingers quickly undid the hastily created lock that kept her "home" safe and secret from the lurking Peacekeepers. This time her "home" was an abandoned warehouse; after her last one went up in flames, it was only in fruitful pursuit did she come upon this one.

A sigh of relief escaped her as she was welcomed by the habitual stench of aging paint, rotting wood, and decaying insects. The room was dark – as expected – but the figure standing in the middle of it was unmistakable.

Before she could string together a coherent train of thought, Rosemarie ran forward and enveloped herself into the figure's arms, the relief in her voice evident. The figure was momentarily surprised before reciprocating the action with equal vigor.

"_Sombra_," her boyfriend of three years, Ollie Gabriel, whispered into her hair. "You made it."

"I almost didn't," was the muffled reply. "They nearly caught me."

They detached themselves from each other before locking eyes; dark brown meeting grey. "I should've waited for you," Ollie muttered. "I shouldn't have gone ahead when you told me to; I should've stayed and gone back _with _you."

"Then they would've caught you, too."

"It'd have been worth it."

"No," Rosemarie responded. "That would've made things worse, besides, it's the past now; I'm alive, you're alive. No big deal, right?"

And just like that all the relief, worry, and trepidation melted from Rosemarie's face, and something glinted in her eyes. Something dark.

"_Sombra_," Ollie gently reprimanded her. _Shadow._ "You're doing it, again."

"Doing what?" she asked off-handedly. "Anyways, you look beat, Ollie. You should get some sleep."

"And what about you?"

"I'll be there in a second."

The olive-skinned Ollie shook his chin-length shaggy black hair, before sighing and turning around. Rosemarie watched the love of her life make his way out of the empty room, and into the darkness.

_If only he knew . . . _

She sighed, and tucked her hands into her pockets. A part of her wished she had told him, right there and then, but with the Reapings coming up . . .

Rosemarie caught sight of herself in one of the broken mirrors that lined the peeling walls. All five six of her, complete with dirt-caked braided red hair, hooded grey eyes, and weary composure.

She locked eyes with herself, and felt her something within her flicker. Within moments the image in front of her had changed; instead of Rosemarie, there now stood another girl, much like her, though very different. This one had the same red hair although it was considerably cleaner, and more neatly braided; her grey eyes were large and alert, standing out on her fair skin. This girl was dressed in dark garb, with a black dagger swinging from her waist. It was evident within her poise that she was more confident than Rosemarie, and the glint in her eyes signified her self-dominance.

The girl that stood in front of her wasn't just a lady in the shadows, but she was a killer; one with no mercy, and one that lived _within _Rosemarie.

"_They'll never catch you."_

But they almost always did.

* * *

**_The Reaping_**

**Takei Glow, 15**

* * *

Reaping Day was one of a celebration in District One. Masses of eager teenagers milled around the Town Square, where towering buildings and the grey factories that produce the Capitol's finest goods stretched as far as the eye could see. Hordes and hordes of people were lined up, checking in with their Peacekeepers, and walking into their age group-classified areas.

Young and meager twelve-year-olds, who were at their first Reaping, stood idly, hands sweating from anxiety and throats dry from uneasiness, as they soundlessly prepared for what may be the last time they see their families.

Eager, bloodthirsty eighteen-year-olds, who had been prepared for their entire lives, roared, cheered, and commuted with their fellow candidates, already hungering for blood as they waited for the drawing of the names. Desperate parents attempted to reassure several broken candidates, kissing and hugging their young like it was their last day with them – which, in a sense, it could've been.

Takei Glow stood in the fifteen-year-olds section, his raven-haired head lost in the sea of blonde, brown, and red. He was apprehensive, which was to be expected, as he awkwardly maintained his poise; it had only been ten minutes since he and Gander had parted, but it was enough for Takei to start regretting whatever had gone unspoken. A part of him wanted to tell him, to confess his feelings, while another wanted him to keep quiet, as to not ruin their friendship; he knew the former was the rational solution, but right now, he wasn't sure if it was the right one.

"_. . . and let it be known how grateful we are by offering new blood for a new age." _ Takei had snapped from his trance long enough to hear District One's mayor conclude his customary speech before handing the mike over to this year's escort, Opal Pedzotti.

Pink-haired and ebony-skinned Opal hobbled her to the microphone in her four-inch violet heels. Takei held back a grimace at the sight of her attire: an array of feathery garments stitched together on a glitter bodice to give her the impression of a luminescent peacock. How the people in the Capitol found this attractive, Takei could not understand nor comprehend.

There were several catcalls and wolf whistles at the sight of Opal's obviously artificial curves. However the sight of her attempting to adjust her pink wig whilst balancing on her heels garnered much more laughter. _Perhaps if you weren't such snappy dressers_, Takei mused, _people would take you seriously._

"District One!" Opal finally crooned into the mike, her silver lips spread in a grotesque smile. "It's been too long!"

"_But not long enough!" _ came a random cry from the crowd. More laughter and Opal's cheery demeanor nearly faltered.

"Anyhow, I bet you're all exci – "

"_Get it over with, twinkle-toes!" _ This statement was met with both laughter and shouts of approval. Takei bit back a smile at the sight of Opal's obvious frustration.

"_Fine!"_ she finally spat. "I guess there's no need for formalities this year, like any of you'd enjoy them. As always, ladies first."

Opal made her way to the colossal glass bowl that was filled to the brim with white slips. Takei sucked in his breath as he watched her plunge her hand into its depths, already praying for the poor soul would have to suffer a mild heart attack before someone volunteered.

Opal withdrew her hand, a slip triumphantly clutched in her perfectly-manicured nails. She cleared her throat, unfolded it, and began to read the name out.

"Mercedes Horo – "

_"I VOLUNTEER!"_

As expected.

Takei sighed as he watched a red-haired female detach herself from the eighteen-year-olds group and bound her way to the stage. With a shock, he realized this was the girl who he had run into the other day – which now seemed like eternities ago.

Her name was long – too long, in Takei's opinion; she seemed like one of those cruel and sadistic female Careers. He knew that she would make it far in the Games. He was prepared for it.

What he wasn't prepared for was when Opal picked out the male Tribute's name, and it was one he had heard too many times, too often.

* * *

**_The Reaping_**

**Rosemarie Celeste Thomas, 18**

* * *

It wasn't often Rosemarie was nervous; usually she was confident in everything and anything. But as she made her way through the hordes of eighteen-year-old, a small jolt of worry ran through her; _what if her plan didn't work? Would she be signing her own death sentence? What would Ollie think of this?_

She shook her head trying to get these pessimistic thoughts out. She was the Lady of Shadows, she could anything, and _this _was certainly one of them.

So when the atrociously dressed escort read out the female's name, she took a long breath, and did what she had to do.

_"I VOLUNTEER!"_

Rosemarie's voice echoed through the square, loud and clear. The District escort's dyed eyebrows shot up; it was often people volunteered, but not _just _as the name was read out.

"Well," she said, her cheery voice already bordering on boredom. "Come on up, then, dear."

As she bounded through the crowd, she was the target of several scowls and disdainful expressions of those who had wanted to volunteer. She shot them a dark look: _your problem, not mine._

"What's your name, then?" Opal inquired to her as she finally came to a halt on the stage.

"Rosemarie Celeste Thomas," was the clear and concise answer. No exuberant promises of victory. No tears of sorrow. There was mild cheering at this.

Her eyes scanned the crowd and Rosemarie caught the eye of Ollie, whose face was wearing a look of utter shock. She swallowed deeply, knowing that he hadn't expected this. Well, neither had she.

She also caught the eye of someone else, two of them to be exact. The last time she had saw either of parents had been over seven years ago, when she had ran away from them. They looked just as they had before, except stunned at both the sight of her and her volunteering.

"And now for the boys." Opal looked tired as she sunk her hand into the second Reaping ball; she rummaged around for a while before finally settling on a slip.

She repeated what she had done with the female Tribute.: clearing of throat, dramatic unfolding of paper, reading of name.

"Takei Glow!"

There was a silence in the crowd, as if waiting for the usual shouting of _"I volunteer!"_, however, this time there was nothing but absolute silence.

Rosemarie's eyes traveled over the crowd, finally coming to a halt at the sight of a boy with short black hair and full, round cheeks. He was firmly rooted in his spot, his eyes wide, and it was evident he had been scared stiff.

"TAKEI!" a scream ran through the square and Rosemarie saw a boy with short brown hair in the fourteen-year-olds section screaming hysterically. "NO!"

_So petty, _she inwardly smirked. _He thinks he can save his friend; let's see what happens when I stand over his dead body._

"Takei Glow, if you would," Opal sighed edgily, gesturing to the stage. Rosemarie observed as the boy tacitly made his way up front. He was slim yet well-toned; it was apparent he hadn't expected this for his golden brown eyes were wide in horror.

"Any words, young man?" she asked the boy. There was no answer from him, for he was still horror-struck, his vision firmly planted on his sneakers.

"Ah, well," Opal regained herself before turning back to the crowd. "Tributes: shake hands."

Rosemarie turned to the boy: he was taller than her, though she could tell he was _much _weaker than she was. She nearly simpered when her firm hand clasped his clammily sweaty one.

"District One, I give you this year's Tributes:_ Takei Glow and Rosemarie Celeste Thomas!"_

The crowd roared in approval.

* * *

**_The Justice Building_**

**Takei Glow, 15**

* * *

The moment the door opened, Takei was enveloped in his parents' arms.

"Oh, my baby," Glamour Glow whispered into his hair, as she plastered his forehead with kisses, her tears streaming like waterfalls. "Oh, my poor, poor baby."

"I can't believe this," his father, Terrence, said as he hugged him next. "I can't believe that – that you, and – and no volunteers and – "

"I'm going to miss you guys," Takei managed through his haze of emotions. "So _much_."

His mother's tears wet the fabric of his shirt, but he didn't mind; right now, he just needed them, and _them _only.

And then he remembered Gander.

He locked eyes with his best friend, the friend he cared about deeper than anyone knew. He needed to tell him, he _had _to.

"I love you," he spluttered out as he wrapped his arms around him. "Oh, god . . ."

Takei wasn't sure if Gander had interpreted his confession the way he had wanted to, but all he knew was the Gander was in his arms and they were together for what could've been the beginning of the end, or the end of the beginning.

* * *

**_The Justice Building_**

**Rosemarie Celeste Thomas, 18**

* * *

"What were you thinking?" Ollie exclaimed as he walked into the room. "You didn't tell me you were going to _volunteer! _ You could get killed out there!"

"But I won't," Rosemarie quietly replied. "I won't _get _killed, I _will _kill."

"Is there a difference?" Ollie's voice was weary and hoarse. "_Sombra, _both of us have lost too much; now I can't lose you, too."

"You won't. I'm going to fight the hardest to get home; I know I have the skills." Her voice was quiet but determined, like she volunteered for death-defying games in her free time. What she didn't let on was she _wasn't _determined, in truth, she was shaken. _The Lady of Shadows could win the Games, but could Rosemarie?_

Ollie looked at her, as if he wanted to say something, anything. Instead he swallowed, hugged her fiercely, and kissed her, hard. Rosemarie reciprocated, and she leaned her forehead against his.

"I can do this," she whispered. "I will win."

"I know you will," Ollie replied. "I love you, but I need you come back to me, okay?"

She nodded, or tried to. There was still a nagging thought in the back of her head. _Tell him_, the voice pressed. _Tell him._

"Hey, Ollie," Rosemarie said, just as a Peacekeeper barged into the room, telling him that it was time to leave.

"Yeah, _sombra?_" he asked, as he slowly made his way to the door.

_Tell him._

_No._

_TELL HIM._

_No._

_You have to tell him._

_Or what?_

_You might die._

"Nothing," she intoned. "I love you, okay? I know what I'm doing."

He gave her a grim smile. "I hope you do."

The door shut with finality, and Rosemarie was left alone in the silence.

Her fingers lightly grazed the fabric of her shirt. She should have told him, she needed to.

But she hadn't.

Slowly stroking the velvet of the worn couch, Rosemarie made a silent promise to herself, trying not to let her wretched emotions get the best of her.

She would not only win the Games for herself, the Lady of Shadows, but for Ollie.

And their child.

* * *

**A/N: **Well, this was a monster of a chapter, _almost 4k words _*insert le shocked face here* It took over a week to produce this, so I hope you take a minute to **leave feedback.** So, what did you think of the writing? The Tributes? I personally really like both of them, because they're so multifaceted. Or will be. Anyways.

**To the authors of these Tributes:** I'd love to hear what you thought about my portrayal of them. Did I keep them faithful to your source material or . . . ?

**District Two** should be up sooner than this, because I've never written Reapings before, and I probably sucked, but whatevs.

**Don't forget to leave a review!** They make my day better _and _motivate this poor soul. Plus, ***insert le shameless self-plug* **I recently got a **Tumblr **and I'd love it if you dropped by and checked out my stuff. Find me at **beyond-insanitastic_. _**;)

Until next time, awesome ones:

**Peace, Love, and Nutella!**

_**xx, cuteypuffgirl**_


	5. District Two: Longing

**A/N: **Well, I think it's been established how horrible of an updater I am. Oops?

First of all, **I am super sorry for the delay of this** **chapter. **It's just that life has gotten increasingly hectic, and this week alone has been a huge roller-coaster (family and health issues _suck)_. Don't get me started on school either, ugh. I've barely had time to write and **WRITER'S BLOCK GAH.**

Anyways, I hope this chapter compensates for my absence.** I apologize in advance for any typos;** I just wanted to put it up the moment I finished.

Also, **thanks for the reviews/faves/follows. **You guys deserve a truckload of Nutella.

Sorry for the long A/N (and the wait), I hope you're still going to stick with this story. Enjoy.

* * *

**A special thank-you to **_jshrn_ **for these amazing Tributes!**

* * *

**District Two: Longing**

**_August Chesterfield, 18, Male_**

**_Raegan Cresfeld, 15, Female_**

* * *

**_Life Before the Reaping_**

**Raegan Cresfeld, 15**

* * *

Her breathing was steady as she wrapped her fingers around her weapon of steel and string; the metal cool against her scarred skin. She withdrew an arrow from her back, before promptly nocking it with accuracy. Her fingers moved with diligence, as if she did this all the time.

She brought the bow up to her shoulder, even closer to her face. As she drew back the bowstring, the thread cut into her pale cheek, although her stance didn't waver. Her pale blue eyes held sight for one thing and one thing only: what was in front of her.

She took a deep breath, and released the string. As fast as lightning, the arrow shot forward and lodged itself into the red-and-yellow target – miles away from the bullseye.

Fifteen-year-old Raegan Cresfeld cursed furiously, already nocking another arrow just as sardonic laughter and accumulating – almost mocking – applause filled the empty room.

"Bravo," a cold and clear voice echoed through the room. "Not only are you convinced that you _can _shoot, but in truth, you really _can't."_

Raegan turned to the general direction of the voice, and her eyes met with those identical to them. In fact, the girl that stood across from her was nearly a carbon copy of her, although she lacked her array of scars and long strawberry blonde hair.

"What are _you _doing here, Raine?" Raegan bitterly addressed her older twin sister.

"Same thing as you, I suppose," was the reply, as Raine made her way over to Raegan. "_Training_, if what you do classifies as that."

Raegan bit her lip to keep back from retorting harshly, to no avail. "And what _you _do does?"

A smug smile curled onto Raine's crimson lips. "What's the difference, _sister_?"

Vitriol rose in Raegan's throat, as anger surged through her veins. Her older sister was unbearable enough within the confinements of her own home, as well as their weekly training sessions; but walking in during one of her rare moments of sanctuary? That was going too far.

"Get out," she managed through gritted teeth. "_Now."_

Her twin sister smirked. "Make me."

Almost immediately, an arrow flew through the air, virtually missing Raine's petite figure by mere millimeters, who promptly yelped in surprise. She looked up, slightly unfazed to see that Raegan had another arrow nocked and ready, her eyes flaring with anger.

"Fine, whatever," Raine spat, finally relenting. "It's not like anyone's going to find you here. And even if they do, the only thing they'll be marveling at is how you couldn't aim to save your life."

And with that rancorous statement, Raine turned on her heel, and the last Raegan saw of her sister was her perfectly toned legs sauntering out the door, leaving her – once more – in the darkness.

White-hot rage surged through her veins, like blood. Raegan felt her grip tighten on her bow, and a scream escape her lips; she flung the bow to the ground out of mere frustration.

For all fifteen years of her life, she had endured Raine's constant mockery; it seemed that her sister strived for perfection (and usually succeeded) in just about everything Raegan could do. Her own _sister _was one of the reasons she couldn't look at herself in the mirror, for she knew all she would see would be failure.

"You need to control that anger of yours," a deep voice – that of a male's – resonated within the room. Raegan turned to meet the eyes of Damon Waver, the Head Trainer, as he walked out of the shadows.

"Well, Raine needs to control her goddamned mouth," was the bitter reply.

A smile slightly found its way onto Damon's lips. "We all have our issues," he said, amusement evident within his voice. "Some more than others."

"You think I don't know that?" Raegan asked, as she ran a hand through her mussed blonde hair. "What are you doing here, anyway? Training resumes tomorrow."

"It doesn't matter." He bent down to pick up Raegan's fallen bow. "What _does _matter, however, is you learning to keep your temper at a low, and _shooting straight. _You're better than her, Raegan, you know that."

"Well, everyone sure acts otherwise," she muttered as she took her bow from him. For the briefest moment her true demeanor was exposed, and beneath all of that bitterness and hatred, there a girl, merely insecure and unloved, a girl who found refuge in pain. A girl who wished people didn't look over her.

Damon sighed as he observed the fifteen-year-old pluck at the string of her bow, as if mentally envisioning Raine's death in her mind (he wouldn't have been surprised). He had been training her as long as he could he could recall, and never had a session gone without her feeling inferior to her older sister.

He reached out and lightly touched her shoulder; Raegan involuntarily jerked at the sudden physical contact. "Just remember:all you need to do is breathe, aim, and fire.I believe in you, Raegan. We all do."

And with that, he dropped his hand from her shoulder, and turned away. Raegan heard his combat boots against the floor of the Center until the door slammed with a sharp _bang._

"_Breath, aim, fire."_

Raine: perfect, slender, tall, and talented Raine. Popular and desirable Raine. Raine, Raine, _Raine. _Everyone loved her, and everyone wanted her. But who wanted her ugly, shadowed, and nearly invisible sister?

Raegan reached back and withdrew an arrow, once more. She nocked it swiftly, her grip tight.

_Breathe._

She pursed her thin lips, carefully drawing in a breath. Over the years, Damon had told her to calm herself, to believe in herself, to do what she was meant to do.

_Aim._

A circle of black and yellow, with a center of red; her sight never left it. It was as if she was the predator, and it was the prey. In a world where there was no Raine Cresfeld; only Raegan, and Raegan only.

_Fire._

The arrow shot through the air, like a bullet, and Raegan watched with satisfaction as it sank into the diminutive center of red, as swiftly as it was shot. A smirk crept onto her face, as a feeling of victory swept over her.

_Bull's-eye._

* * *

**_Life Before the Reaping_**

**_August Chesterfield, 18_**

* * *

Fire; his head was on fire. The flames shot through his skull, pierced his skin, and caused his vision to blur. He felt numb, the only sensation registering was the ineffable pain. His bones ached, and it hurt to move the slightest inch; the inside of his mouth felt like sandpaper.

Swirls of color were swimming in front of his eyes; large blobs of neon colors floated, crashed, and exploded. It was like a symphony of images, the color being the music, and his mind being the musician.

_Music_; that was another thought that swam into his dreary abyss of a brain. He could faintly hear it, it was soft and soothing but soon escalated to a raging roar. Words, there were words in the music; words that sounded vaguely familiar.

Then the music ceased and there were only words – words spoken desperately, in a tone that of a female's.

He picked up one of the words he heard.

"August. August. _August."_

August: wasn't that a month? Yeah, it was; but it was also something else . . . his name. _My name is August_, he thought hazily. _Right?_

"Wake up, you idiot."

_Wake up? _From what? He opened his mouth a tiny fraction to groan, but his cracked lips threatened to split, and the boy couldn't muster enough energy to do any more. He heard the girl – _it was a girl, right? _– sigh, swearing furiously, and muttering something about "drastic measures". _Drastic_, he thought to himself. _That's a funny word. Even 'funny' is a funny word. Heh, that doesn't make sense. I wonder – _

_SPLASH!_

The shock registered before the actual impact, and eighteen-year-old August Chesterfield found himself crashing out of the tangled silk sheets of his bed, onto the hard wooden ground, his entire body soaked with cold water.

As if it was natural instinct, the first words that escaped his mouth were: _"My hair!"_

"Really? _That's _the first thing you say? Geez, not even a bit of gratitude." August's sleep-dazed grey eyes looked up to meet a pair of sapphire ones, with strands of dark hair covering most of their appearance. He distantly smiled.

"Mornin' to you, too, Serra," August managed through the thousands of needles that stabbed into his skull. "You look disconcerted."

His fifteen-year-old stepsister, Serra, snorted acrimoniously. "Speak for yourself,_ shit-faced. _Have you _looked _in the mirror lately?"

"What is that supposed to . . . ?" August's question died in his mouth as he looked down at himself (or attempted to, it was difficult to do while you were flopped onto the floor). His usually crisply clean (and _expensive) _clothes were crumpled, ripped, and lathered in confetti, lipstick marks, glitter, and splotches of could've been beer.

He groaned, before bringing his hands up to cover his face. "Oh, _shit. _How wasted did I get last night?"

Serra laughed sardonically. "The usual; so drunk you stumbled into the house half-dressed with a bottle of the District's finest, rambling about how you needed to save the country from evil mutants with your superpowers. You ended up collapsing halfway up the stairs when you tried to lick your elbow."

"And mom and dad?" August asked, almost frantically, referring to his foster parents.

"Never noticed, never will." Serra's answer was deadpan and concise; August felt his insides constrict for the slightest moment; he had expected the answer, he always did, but a part of him – the faintest shred of his being – hoped that maybe, just _maybe, _his foster parents would notice his nightly antics once in a while.

Shaking the thoughts out of his golden-haired head, August gritted his teeth and forced himself off the ground. Every part of him ached.

"Ugh," he muttered, "why'd you have to wake me up so early, anyway?"

Serra rolled her eyes. "_Because, _dumbass, today's the day we find out who's going to be volunteering this year. Or is your skull too thick to understand that?"

"Fine, fine, I get it, jeez," August mumbled as he got on his feet, stretching himself. There was a dull throbbing in his head – no doubt from all the alcohol he had consumed the night before – but he was used to it, having experienced it almost weekly.

His stepsister watched in disgust as he ran his a wistful hand through his hair; sure they had the same social circle, but watching this _idiot _of a stepbrother go out and get himself wasted every other night irked her to the core.

"Whatever," she spat, whipping herself around, heading for the door. "Oh, I'd suggest you hurry up. Reven and your _friends _are waiting outside."

At the sound of the word _friends_, August shook his head manically, before hauling himself into the shower. If there was one thing he couldn't miss, it was his friends.

By the time he'd made it outside into the grey atmosphere of District Two, a group of guys and girls decked in lavish clothing and clutching cigarettes awaited him. August watched as the white smoke from their cigars slowly curled into the air.

"'Sup, August," seventeen-year-old Reven Masterson greeted him, his blackened teeth wide and his brown eyes alive with malice. "Finally managed to pull yourself outta that hellhole?"

"Tell me about it," August replied as he took in Reven's appearance. His black hair was ever-disheveled and he had a cigar in his hand. On his arm was a girl with frizzy red hair; no doubt one of his countless _lady friends_. He seemed to have a different one every other day.

"_Hey, _August," breathily spoke another girl in the group, Kanna Trevor. Her long blonde hair was pinned up in a pink-streaked bun today, and her skintight blue top was as low-cut as ever, giving August an eyeful of things he _really _didn't need to see so early in the morning.

"Kanna," he timidly replied. It was evident Kanna was disappointed at his response, her thick red lips stretched in a frown. She huffed and wrapped her arm around another boy of their group, this one with brown hair and an expression so elated at the sight of Kanna that August wondered if he'd been doing drugs lately.

"You guys ready to see whose gonna be volunteering this year?" August inquired as the group of _friends _made their way through the stone streets of District Two.

"Don't count on me, dude," Reven quirked, as he tossed away his cigar. "No way they're takin' me in for that shit." There was laughter at his statement.

Sunlight found its way through the lifeless clouds as multitudes of people made their way through the District. Many of them were dressed in work clothes, ready for their regular ordeal at the Nut. A pang went through August at the sight of these people; _my parents were like that_, he subconsciously thought to himself, _just before they blew up._

The Training Center was popular among the majority of the Hunger Games-eligible population of District Two; August watched as groups of enthusiastic people made their way inside. Even though he hated to admit it, he'd always hated the place. The only reason he trained was because he had to, because his _parents _had insisted to.

By the time the group had gotten inside, most of the crowd had organized themselves into neat rows. Even though it wasn't customary in other Career Districts, District Two always had a habit of choosing their volunteers beforehand; even though he'd lived here his whole life, August had never fully grasped this concept.

The Head Trainer, Damon Waver, was visibly agitated; he stood on a pedestal, constantly shouting to keep the crowd calm. By the time silence was achieved, August was already losing sense of his surroundings, the dull throb of a passed hangover already snaking back into the confinements of his skull.

"Alright, guys," Damon proclaimed, the moment all chatter in the room ceased. "Today we're all for obvious reasons – to find out which two lucky bastards will be straining their necks and screaming out everyone's two favorite words at this year's Reaping. I think it's suffices to say that there's no need for any sort of introduction."

This statement merited cheers from the audience; August held back a dismissive eye-roll.

"Now," the Head Trainer continued, "let's find out which _female _will be volunteering this year." He cleared his throat and turned to one of his associates; Damon's eyebrows shot into the air when the name was whispered into his ear.

He turned back to the crowd, apprehension evident on his face. "So this year's female volunteer is, uh," he swallowed and August swore he saw a strong emotion flicker in his eyes. "Raegan Cresfeld," he finished, his voice laced with a hint of amusement.

It didn't take long for a dissonance of "_who?"_s to rise from the crowd. August vaguely recognized the last name; her sister was famous around here, known for her promiscuous ways.

A shrill scream pierced the air, and August turned around just in time to see a girl with short strawberry blonde hair fumingly make her way out of the Center, her heels clacking angrily against the tiled floor.

"Do you know who this Raegan chick is?" Reven asked August, as his eyes hungrily took in the sight of the raging blonde.

"Nope," August replied nonchalantly, his attention back on Damon; he didn't care for the Games as much he did for the initial Training, nor for the Tributes.

Damon cleared his throat loudly, regaining most of the crowd's attention. He opened his mouth to continue: "And now this year's male volunteer is . . ."

* * *

The boy's desperate pleas echoed in August's ears; he gritted his teeth as he felt himself being shook for the umpteenth time, the same sentence resonating through the hall.

"You _have _to, August," Reven tearfully managed, his customarily clear blue eyes clouded with fear. "You _have _to volunteer instead of me; I – I'll be killed out there."

"You think we don't know that, Reven?" Kanna snorted, as she observed the black-haired boy desperate cling onto August.

"This isn't _funny_," Reven nearly screamed at her, his face red. "I don't know why they picked me, but what I do know is that there's no way I c – can participate in th – the Games. It's m – madness. August, you have to go instead of me. _Please."_

August looked down the one he called _friend; _the one he had first swapped cigars with, the one who had clinked glasses of vodka with, and the one who had taught him the difference between snorting and swallowing cocaine. Reven was the friend who had introduced him to the right people, had taken him to the right parties, and had taught him the right tricks. Sure his effects weren't necessarily positive, but Reven was his _friend. _They all were. _Right?_

"Please," Reven begged again, his voice breaking. "_Please."_

August took a deep breath, contemplating his options; Reven was his friend, and he didn't take his friends so lightly to heart. Even if it meant treading the line between life-or-death.

His answer was curt and final, and he only said it because he knew saying otherwise would be risking losing his friends.

"_Fine,_" August finally spat."I'll volunteer for this year's Hunger Games in place of you. But only because you're my friend."

The ecstatically grateful smile on Reven's face didn't reach his eyes.

* * *

**_The Reaping_**

**_Raegan Cresfeld, 15_**

* * *

Grayness: that was what District Two sorely consisted of; dull shapes of grey that stretched on for miles and miles, their monotonous facades never wavering. The only part of District Two that _wasn't _gray was the Nut: a formidable figure in the horizon, with a steady slew of gray and white-clothed people forever flowing out of it.

The men and women that worked there, day and night, were all frail and weary, the eyes glassy, their cheekbones sunken, and their backs hunched. The occasional glossy white-clothed barrage of Peacekeepers would join the crowd, but only when events of necessary interference occurred.

The only time District Two was allowed a reprieve from their customary grayness was Reaping Day. It was the day the dormant bloodthirsty hounds in themselves awoke from their slumber; as crisp new clothes were ironed and adorned, hair meticulously styled, and screams for blood and eagerness for the spilling of it filled the air, as hordes and hordes of people made their way into the District Square.

Raegan Cresfeld bit back severely acerbic comments as she observed her older sister, Raine, prance her way into their age group circle, her short strawberry blonde hair glistening with hair serum (although for some reason, their parents had neglected to offer Raegan some) and her curves perfectly stuffed into a body-hugging red and black ensemble. Almost immediately, Raine was enveloped in a hail of admirers, many of which were of the opposite gender.

She had gotten used to it, people always giving Raine the attention and overlooking _her ugly little twin sister. _Even as some curious eyes flitted over to her direction, Raegan didn't need to hold eye contact, as they eyes quickly slipped away and back onto Raine.

_Notice me, _she wanted to desperately scream sometimes. _Please, just notice me._

"District Two," drawled this year's pink-haired escort, Lydia Rokcut, into the microphone, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "_Happy _Hunger Games."

Roars and cheers of approval filled the air at this statement. Raegan refrained from it, even though she knew that the Games were her ticket to _finally _being noticed. Even at the Training Center, when her name was announced, did no one shoot her a look. Those who did were usually asking _who _this Raegan Cresfeld was. As far as they knew, her sister had furiously made her way out of the Center, only to be heard of when engaged in a furious battle of words with the Head Trainer, about how _she _should've been chosen, not that _pathetic excuse of a sister._

_But all that's going to change today, _Raegan thought maliciously, as she watched the escort force herself from falling asleep on stage. It was evident that she was already bored of this, already knowing the routine. Raegan watched as Lydia sighed, already sick of the formalities.

"Let's just cut the crap and get to the names, alright?" Lydia said into the microphone, her Capitol-accented voice thick and irate. Raegan drew in a breath as she watched her walk over to the Reaping ball and plunged her hand into the sea of papers. One rose from the heap, and in bated breath, Raegan watched as she unfolded it.

"Agilinia Brickett!"

The crowd stirred slightly, as if waiting for the telltale shout of everyone's two favorite words. Raegan inhaled deeply, ready to deliver them. _This is it, _she thought. _This is going to change it all._

Slowly yet steady, she raised a bony arm into the air, before yelling out – in the loudest voice she could muster:

"I VOLUNTEER!"

* * *

**_The Reaping_**

**_August Chesterfield, 18_**

* * *

Reven's cries of desperation echoed in August's ears as he watched a girl with flowing strawberry blonde hair shakily make her way onto the stage. _So this was the Raegan Cresfeld everyone was talking about, _he thought to himself. _Or rather, everyone asking who she was._

She was lean, with a fair amount of muscle on her. With one quick glance at her stance, August knew he was looking at an archer.

"A volunteer;_ what _a surprise," Lydia enunciated, the disdain unmistakable. "What's your name, sweetheart?"

"Raegan Cresfeld," the girl said into the mike, her voice laced in fake confidence. She looked like she wanted to say more, but the escort cut her off before she could.

"Alright, then," Lydia said, her voice lilting. "Onto to the _males."_

Deep shouts rose from the crowd, only to be drowned by shriller ones, that of the female population.

"Dude, this is it," Reven breathed, as he and August watched the escort pick through the sea of papers. "You have to do it instead of me. You can't bail on me, man."

"Don't worry, I won't," August muttered; a part of him as a bit hesitant: _was volunteering for Reven worth it? _Really _worth it? _Of course it was, August quickly shoved that thought to the back of his head. _Besides, what's life without a little risk?_

"Nero Domitian!"

Reven's eyes nearly bored into the back of August's skull. "_Do it," _ Reven nearly hissed. "_Now."_

August thought about his parents – the real ones, the ones who had died in the Nut. Would they approve of him volunteering? For a friend, nonetheless? _Oh, right, they're dead._

"I VOLUNTEER!" August's voice rang loud and clear through the crowd. And just to stress his point, he bellowed even louder: "I VOLUNTEER AS TRIBUTE!"

He heard Reven sigh in what could've been relief or satisfaction. To be honest, he didn't care.

"Yay, a volunteer. Whoop-dee-doo, come on up, then." Lydia didn't even bother hiding her disparagement this time.

August bounded through the crowd, ignoring the various scathing looks he received. For the briefest moment, his eyes connected with that of Reven and Kanna's, looking for something: congratulations, pity, or even reassurance. But all he received was a glassy stare, with as much as emotion as a rock.

"And your name is . . . ?" Lydia inquired, yawning.

"August Chesterfield," was the answer, "at your service, District Two!"

His response was met with a rather enthusiastic amount of cheers. Not nearly as much for the female Tribute.

"Alright, then. Now that's done, Tributes shake hands, blah blah blah. You know the drill."

Raegan Cresfeld seemed a bit hesitant at first, before slowly extending her hand out to August. He clasped it with a firm grip, before warmly shaking it, his teeth bared in an award-winning smile. The girl did not reciprocate, her blues eyes shimmering with what seemed like frostiness. _Well, _August thought, _she looks like she won't be having a bit of fun this year._

"District Two," Lydia's voice finally showcased some sort of cheer, most probably at the fact that the Reaping had come to a close. "I present this year's Tributes: _August Chesterfield and Raegan Cresfeld!"_

As he watched arms shoot into the air, mouths open in scream, and feet stomp in consent of these Tributes, August only had one thought on his mind:

_Let's get this party started._

* * *

**_The Justice Building_**

**_Raegan Cresfeld, 15_**

* * *

Having lived most of her life in the shadow of her sister, Raegan was more than surprised when her parents walked into the confinements of the rather well-decked room.

"Raegan, dear," breathed her mother, Selly. "Congratulations."

"It is a great honor to take part in the Games," her father, Marlin, continued. "We – as a family – are proud of this."

"A _family?" _Raegan harshly snapped, all the anger she had been bottling up from the past few years suddenly spewing out. "Is _that _what we are? My bad, I thought it was just you guys and good ol' _Raine."_

Selly's face was drawn in shock, her blonde eyebrows. "W – what? Raegan, that's crazy, why would you even – "

"I don't hear you denying it." Raegan's voice was like poison, flying everywhere and at everyone. "_Both _of you, in fact."

"Raegan," Marlin shakily said. "Whatever we did, we're – we're sorry. I'm – "

"Where _is _Raine, anyway?" Raegan asked, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "I can't believe she'd miss this chance to _mock _me."

Both her parents were silent for a moment, as if contemplating what to say next. "She," Selly began, "she didn't – she said she – " Her voice spluttered and died, as if realizing saying the rest would be to no prevail.

"Of course," Raegan bitterly mused. "She wouldn't bother, I mean _why _would she? I'm surprised you two didn't join her."

"Raegan – "

"No," she snapped. "I'm sick of this. I'm sick of _all _of this. I don't want to hear it, just – just leave me alone."

Her parents stood stoic, pleas and apologies at their lips, words gone unspoken. The three locked eyes, before Marlin and Selly sighed.

"We're sorry, Raegan," her mother dutifully managed. "We really are."

And with that, the two slammed the door shut, leaving Raegan alone with her bitter regret and the tiny piece of sorrow that had somehow managed to sneak into her.

* * *

**_The Justice Building_**

**_August Chesterfield, 18_**

* * *

Augusts fingers gently grazed over the velvet of the couch, only for his reverie to be broken by the opening of the door and the ushering in of a visitor.

He expected to see manic brown eyes and disheveled black hair, along with luscious blonde hair and glimmering hazel eyes, with congratulations and whoops escaping them, followed by a fist-bump or two. What he _didn't _expect however were piercing blue eyes and flowing dark hair.

"_Serra?" _August spluttered out incredulously.

"Yeah, don't be so surprised," she replied condescendingly. "It's not like I wanted to come."

"Wait, if you're here, where's mom and dad? And Reven?" The moment the words left his lips, August already knew the answer. Just like he had for all his life.

Serra flashed him a very brief sympathetic look, dreading the response. "Mom and dad are caught up at work, and Reven said something about an after-Reaping party." She paused, before hastily adding, "I'm sorry."

But she received no feedback, for August had gone frozen, his mind racing. After all he'd done for them, after he had near sacrificed his _goddamn life _for them, his so-called friends hadn't found it within themselves to bid him goodbye. And come to think of it, they had never found it within themselves to do _anything._

"August." Serra's voice cut through his thoughts. "I know you're angry, but – "

"_Angry?" _ August said in disbelief. "Understatement of the century."

"They were never your friends in the first place," Serra pressed on. "It was never within them to come here, or to be _there _for you."

"And does that rule apply to our _parents, _as well?" he muttered scornfully. His so-called friends were one thing, but his parents? He wished they'd be there for once, to _witness _him becoming more than they had expected. But as always, they were _busy. _Like every single goddamn time.

His statement was met with a speech Serra. "August," she said, "that's hardly fair, they're busy and they have _things _to do and –"

"They _always _do," August articulated heatedly. "That's the thing; they're _never _there, and I just wish that – you know, maybe one day, they _would _be."

Serra opened her mouth to reply, but was interrupted by the opening of the door, and the arrival of a Peacekeeper.

"Out," the white-clothed man intoned, not even bothering to apologize for his interference.

The two stepsiblings locked eyes, and years of resentment, hatred, and envy passed between them. Even if they hated to admit it, they _had _grown to care for each other – a lot more than they ever thought they would.

"Do your best out there, August," Serra managed in a strangled voice. "Make mom and dad proud."

She walked out of the room, and the door slammed behind her. August sat alone, as he digested her last words.

"Make mom and dad proud."

_Well, not only will I make mom and dad prouder than ever, but I'll also make sure that they remember me._

And he wasn't just referring to his foster parents.

* * *

**A/N: **_5,000 words._ Hopefully well-spent on doing justice to these Tributes. **What were your thoughts on them? **I'm not too keen on Careers, but these two are pretty humane compared to the usual ones. Plus they were fun to write! **Thoughts?**

**To the author of the Tributes: **I'd love to hear your thoughts on my portrayal!

_Hopefully, _District Three will be done faster than this, but no promises. **I will finish the Reapings. **No question about that. Although you'll have to put up with my suckish writing and horrible updating until then.

I'd love to hear your thoughts on the **writing, the characters,** **some ConCrit, **and all that. **Feedbac**k is essential, and it helps me improve (and brightens up my day!) So I'd love you forever if you would **review!**

**Until next time, awesome ones:**

**Peace, Love, and Nutella!**

_**xx cuteypuffgirl**_


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